Helen of Troy
by thybeauty
Summary: Daughter of Zeus. Queen of Sparta. Princess of Troy.   A second person perspective of the most beautiful woman the world has ever known.


Helen

_Daughter of Zeus. Queen of Sparta. Princess of Troy._

_ A second person perspective of the most beautiful woman the world has ever known._

Your name will forever be linked to two cities.

Sparta.

Troy.

They say that your face, your beauty, caused the ruin of the greatest city on Earth. You led fifty-thousand men to their bloody deaths and launched an armada of one thousand ships.

But forget about all of that for now.

For now, you're simply Helen.

* * *

Your childhood is short. Short but sweet. Your brothers, Castor and Polydeuces, are your best friends, for however brief a time. They soon outgrow you in favor of sword-fighting, but you love them anyway.

Clytemenstra already loathes you by the time you're old enough to play. She's the elder sister, she should have all the glory, all the attention. But she never has it and never will.

It's all yours.

The servants whisper about you as you grow. You pretend you can't hear them, but soon, you collect every detail. Each one is a precious piece in the story.

It's well known that Tyndareus of Sparta is not your father. Leda, your lovely mother, was seduced by Zeus in the form of a swan. She birthed two eggs; from one egg, your sister Clytemenstra and your brother Castor were hatched. From the other, you and Polydeuces were born.

As a child of Zeus, the gods grant you beauty beyond the wildest imagination. You barely notice it as you grow; you enjoy the attention, but you'd rather be swimming in the sea than gazing at your reflection like the other noblewomen.

Theseus, a son of Poseidon, steals you from your home as a child. You barely remember it; you were held for ransom and rescued. That's all. It's your first taste of the world. It won't be your last.

Suddenly, the time comes for you to marry. Legions of men arrive, and the fresh blood excites you. Which one will Father choose? You know it's not your decision, but you think of it anyway.

Ajax is fearsome, and much too tall. Odysseus is too clever, too witty. Nestor is very old.

In the end, Tyndareus chooses Menelaus. Red-haired and stocky, you've overlooked and forgotten him already. He blushes and stutters in your presence, as most men do. You want someone who is your equal, a _young_ man.

But that won't do. You don't have a choice, you're a woman. That's the way of the world.

You find marriage quite tiresome. Menelaus, although gentle, incites no passion in you. You bear his child—a girl, Hermione—who you love more than anything. Her hair, strawberry-blonde at birth, turns to fire by the time she's two years old.

She's a redhead. She looks like him.

You hate it.

Years pass. Your beauty grows, rather than diminish. The gods bless you. Women curse you. Men love you.

But you pay them no mind. Something—someone—has come for you.

He's your destiny.

* * *

You love Paris of Troy from first sight. Later, you'll claim it's a madness sent by Aphrodite, but you're breathless when his ship docks in the Spartan port.

It feels like you're on fire. Perhaps you are.

He's lovely. You finally found him, he's your match. Your equal.

His hair is golden blonde and curly, his eyes bluer than the Aegean Sea. His skin looks so soft, you ache to touch it. But you can't. Menelaus is watching. He's oblivious of your desire; he simply thinks that the heat of the late afternoon has gotten to you.

_Stupid oaf._

You want him.

_Paris_.

You know that Menelaus will give you anything you want, but not this. Not him.

But then, you do the unthinkable. You take him all on your own.

Paris is different. It takes awhile, but then you understand; you've never had a lover your own age before. It's exciting. Here's the passion you've been waiting for. It seems that the gods have blessed you with everything you've ever wanted.

That fact would frighten a lesser woman. But you've long gotten used to your half-divinity. You're a queen. With queendom comes a dignity than no normal woman could understand.

You want to leave. Paris is going to sail soon, and you'll never see him again.

Sparta has never been your home, you've never felt content here. It only takes minutes for him to convince you to go with him. You leave Hermione behind; though you love her, Menelaus does, too. And she looks like him.

The seas are calm. Poseidon _must_ be on your side. Well, of course he is, he's hated the Greeks since they refused him Athens. You bask in the sunlight and finally accept your new title: Helen of Troy.

Paris sits with you on deck; he's a prince, he can do as he pleases. His kisses are the only things you want right now.

* * *

Troy is as magnificent a city as the bards claim. You've never seen such grandeur, such elegance. Sparta looks like a poor village compared to this bustling city. You know that this is were you belong.

Hector is a kind man and a brave warrior, although he's somewhat displeased by your arrival. He knows that Menelaus will follow, bringing the armies of Agamemnon in his wake.

But he loves his brother. He's loyal. He'll never send you away now that Paris is finally happy.

Priam is much more welcoming. Your reputations precede the both of you; Helen, daughter of Zeus, goddess among women. Priam, King of Troy, father of fifty sons and fifty daughters. You're the jewel of his collection, the last piece in his glorious array of Trojan treasures.

Cassandra frightens you. She screams that you bring death to Troy, that the city will burn, the men killed, the women raped, the children thrown from the high walls.

No one pays her any mind. She's rushed from the room, but her screams still echo in your ears. But Paris is there, and you soon forget about her.

* * *

The Greek army arrives, the ships covering every inch of the sea. The women weep, the men are grimly silent, the royal family calm and collected. The walls have never been breached in living memory. The gods adore the Trojans. Prince Hector, Tamer of Horses, will destroy the invaders.

Time passes. Paris is always there, adoring you, loving you, reminding you that Menelaus will never come near you again. You watch your former husband kill hundreds of men from the city walls. He sees you, sometimes. His green eyes are narrowed in rage, and his mouth moves. You can't hear the words over the clash of swords and the moans of the dying.

You see your former suitors on the battlefield. Ajax. Achilles. Machaon. Peneleus. You wonder if they're fighting for _you_ or the glory of war.

But then you remember: they're fighting for Menelaus. They swore under the Oath of Horse before you married Menelaus. You groan. Odysseus again. You see him in the throes of battle, and wonder how your cousin Penelope is faring over their separation. The oracles say that this war will go on for ten years. She won't see him for twenty, they say.

* * *

Quite suddenly, the luck of Troy runs out.

Prince Hector dies, killed by the mighty Achilles. Andromache weeps and weeps, clutching their young son to her chest. Her hateful eyes never leave your face, and you can easily see why: she blames you.

Achilles drags Hector's bloody body across the battlefield. Priam watches in silence as his former heir apparent is denied his rightful funeral rites.

Hector's spirit will linger on the shores of the river Styx, forbidden from moving on. It's a fate worse than anything in this world. You shiver; the suffering of the dead is the cruelest punishment one can receive.

As you see more Trojans fall, leaderless, guilt begins to grip you. It doesn't let go. Blood is your bride-price. You did bring death to Troy.

Paris challenges Menelaus to a fight. The winner gets you. It's your turn to weep; you know he'll never win. Paris kisses your tears away, blissfully unaware of how skilled in battle Menelaus really is. As the second son, Paris was not trained as much as Hector was. He can't command an army. He won't win.

But as soon as Menelaus is ready to give the last blow, Paris disappears.

* * *

Aphrodite whisked him away. She saved him. In essence, she saved you, too.

The other men call him cowardly. Cassandra screams for his death. For _your_ death. Other women join her cry. You stare over the horizon, see the rivers of blood, and want to fling yourself off the impenetrable walls. You know that the women of the city would gladly help you.

However, the Fates have other plans. Paris kills Achilles. The most famous warrior of Greece falls under your lover's careful arrow.

Just when your heart can't take anymore, it shatters.

Paris dies.

Suddenly, the screams of grief are coming from your mouth. The flames of the funeral pyre suddenly look so inviting as they lick his flesh, whisking his soul to the Land of the Dead. Someone holds you back, keeping you from joining him—Deiphobus, another son of Priam. Paris and Hector's brother.

His touch is not comforting; it's possessive. You've seen the way he looks at you when Paris was not by your side. You know what he wants. Your weeping doesn't rouse any sympathy from him.

You're so cold, so numb, that even his unwelcome touch fails to make you feel. Weeks pass.

Deiphobus comes to your room every night, and you do nothing.

* * *

Then one day, the Trojan port is empty.

The Greeks are gone.

In their place is a large wooden horse. It's a gift. An offering to the gods. They've gone home, given up.

You're safe.

The Trojans sing and dance in glee. Even you crack a smile. Menelaus is gone, just like Paris promised.

_Paris._

Your heart twists in pain, but you stay silent.

He's gone. He isn't coming back.

* * *

Though the celebration cheers you, it doesn't feel complete. Even though you know Paris is dead, you hope that he's hidden somewhere in the crowd of dancers. In one moment, he'll run into the hall and pick you up and kiss you and make Deiphobus pay for what he's done.

But Paris doesn't appear.

It hurts to smile. But you do. The people want you to. You're the prize.

It feels false and hollow. Perhaps some god will take pity on you and whisk you away.

Again, no one appears. You feel eyes on you; it's Cassandra. She stares at you for a moment. Those eyes. Paris had the same eyes.

You gasp. It's like he _has_ returned after all. The two sapphires linger on you for a moment before they disappear down the hall.

Desperate to see those eyes again, you run after her, careless of the wreath on your head. No one stops you.

She's waiting.

It's a moment before she speaks. Her voice sounds ancient. Sad. You're older than her by at least a year, and yet, in her presence, you feel like a child.

"The Greeks are inside the horse," she whispers. She clutches her heart and whimpers. Your hand twitches, yearning to comfort the girl who has become somewhat of a sister over the past ten years. You let it fall and listen to the mournful murmur of her voice.

"My brothers slaughtered, sisters stolen, their children murdered," she cries. "Troy will burn by midnight. And _me_..."

"And you?" you ask, too frightened to inquire after your own fate. After what you've been through already, you decide you don't care anymore.

She laughs. You shiver at the sound. It sounds dark and insane; the noise belongs in the pits of Tartarus.

"Me? _Me?_ Agamemnon will take me as his concubine. And when we get back to Mycenae, Clytemenstra will slit my throat."

_Clytemenstra_. The name sounds so foreign. After a moment, you find your voice. "Why?"

She shrugs, her mood rapidly swinging once again. Now she's indifferent. "Agamemnon sacrificed Iphigenia for fair winds. I'll just be a reminder of the war that stole her favorite daughter."

She gazes out into the darkness, finally silent. Your heart races. The Greeks will spare no one—not even you.

"How do you live like this?" you ask. This knowledge could save thousands of people, and yet, who would believe a former queen of Sparta? With Paris gone, you have no one.

She laughs again. It's chilling. "I don't know. But it will be over soon enough."

You've heard too much. You can't take anymore, this knowledge will kill you. Cassandra doesn't seem to notice your departure; she stares at the horse that's almost level with the balcony. You wonder if Agamemnon can see her, watching his future prize.

Exhausted, you go to your room and sink to the floor, trembling. Menelaus will surely slit _your_ throat as soon as he gets the chance. Maybe you should do it for him.

_No._

Resigned, you cover yourself like a child and close your eyes.

* * *

Deiphobus wanders into bed later, drunk and lively after the celebration. Later, while he sleeps, you briefly consider what it would be like to kill. He's sound asleep; it could be quick. Simple. He's damaged you beyond repair. It would be easy.

But you don't get the chance. The screams have started. The knife slips through your cold fingers.

Deiphobus wakes and clumsily dresses in his armor, leaving you behind without a second glance.

* * *

Everything's on fire. You wonder if this really is Tartarus, not Troy. Perhaps this is the eternal suffering you deserve.

You have to get out.

But where to go?

Hours fly by. You move as if in a dream, watching as the treasury is sacked, women are widowed, houses are burned to the ground.

Finally, a soldier stops you. Then another. Orders from Menelaus, you expect. You don't resist them. You're led to a locked room and left there until morning.

* * *

The sun is climbing in the sky. The ashes of Troy are still smoking around you. The Greeks are drunk on Trojan wine. The widows are weeping again. You know what will happen to them now, and expect to feel a surge of pity. Spoils of war.

But you feel nothing. Your lover is dead. The city that was your home for ten years is now just a memory. Your husband will kill you. You pray to Father Zeus that it's quick and painless.

_Paris is waiting_, you think. You'll see him in the Elysian Fields—or if you're both lucky, the Elysian Islands.

The soldiers lead the way; again, you don't resist them. The Trojan women see you and spit at your feet. One of them begins to scream for Menelaus to kill you. The rest of them parrot her, taking up the chant. The noise is deafening.

Cassandra is silent. Her right eye is swollen and purple. Bruises form a necklace around her throat. She stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Agamemnon, who's grinning smugly at his brother.

Menelaus.

He's waiting. His hands hold the dagger that will end your life. You wonder what it feels like to die and realize that you don't want to know.

The soldiers let go of you and you're standing defenseless in front of a man who wants you dead. The screaming of the widows grows louder. Menelaus stares at you, his eyes narrowed in cold anger.

The blade touches your throat. It's colder than anything you've ever felt.

You know that words won't move his fury. You've shamed him for ten years.

Maybe you _should_ die.

Instead you use the last weapon you have left. This body has brought you nothing but pain and grief; it's the reason why so many have died.

It's always the same. _The gods bless you. Women curse you. Men love you._

The cloth slips easily off your skin, and the nearby soldiers blush like women and look away. Menelaus stares and stares, his jaw dropping. Childbirth is irrelevant to this body; you look the same as you did when you were seventeen. Naked, you must be glorious. Divine.

Menelaus drops the dagger and rips the cloak from his shoulders, wrapping it around you like a vice. You force a smile and kiss him, secretly repulsed.

You aren't ready to die.

Hermione needs her mother.

It's a weak excuse, but it will do.

* * *

She's different when you arrive back in Sparta. It's nearly time for her to marry. You remember that years ago, that was you. You wonder what she thinks of you, the absent mother that flew away like a swan.

You're the Queen of Sparta once again, husband to Menelaus, mother of Hermione. It's like you never left.

Troy has crumbled into dust, thousands have been decimated, your true and only love is separated by the final death.

You suppose that it's the immortal side of you that fears death. Although you will die like any other woman, the reckless _godlike_ part of you refuses to submit to the natural order.

The gods are still generous. They grant you a long life, and your beauty remains long into old age.

You'll die Helen of Sparta.

Though in your heart, you're still Helen of Troy.

**A/N: Erm, feel free to mock...**


End file.
